November Fudge and the Mad Irishman
by Esperanza Fuega
Summary: The pampered Minister's daughter, November, gets her dream job. But six months later, she's sacked, and her luck takes a turn for the worse as she discovers a body in the bathroom. Can she outrun the killer fast enough to uncover his identity? (RR?)


November. The name stuck out. It was a name to remember; its owner? Anything but. Not worthy of garnering a second look, really. November's only claim to fame was her name. Even though her father regularly made an ass of himself as Minister of Magic, the Fudge name was respectable yet, and someone bearing that surname could get a job anywhere; the only thing was, no one bearing that surname had to get a job anywhere. But November Petra Fudge wanted to work at Witch Weekly and whatever November Petra Fudge wanted, _she got_, by Merlin. So she took herself down to the Witch Weekly main offices in London and sat in the lobby filling out an application. The receptionist (blonde, chesty, gorgeous), sat behind a tall mahogany desk, giving her nails a wand manicure and chattering excitedly to a mirror. November figured it was a magic mirror; she made a mental note to find the charm used on those.  
"An' then, aw, Sheila, ya won' believe wha' th' li'l jam roll turn't round 'n' said to me! 'E turned right round an' said it, 'e did. An' 'e said, cor lummee, 'e said, 'Briney luv, if'n ya weren't such a brass I'd 'ave taken ya back long 'afore!' Me a brass, Sheila Evans! Me a brass! An' me prolly carryin' th' li'l Sri Lanker's saucepan lid an' all an' he says that to me, Sheila Evans! Me myself!"  
"Cor lummee!" came a sympathetic voice from the mirror. November girt her teeth, trying to block out the noise. Finally, as the receptionist shrieked something November took to mean that if the offending wizard ever spoke to the blonde again, she would build a barn the likes of which never seen before, November cleared her throat, speaking softly at first.

"Miss? Miss?" No response; the blonde girl kept chattering away at the mirror, sparks emitting from her wand. "Excuse me, miss?" November took a deep breath, remembering what her singing instructor said about projecting the air. "Miss!"  
The blonde looked over casually. "Wot can I do fer ya, pet?"  
"I was...I was wondering," November said hesitantly, "if you would...if you would please quiet down...it's very hard to concentrate...er...of course...I can always go...um, somewhere else and finish this, if it's...too much of a bother..."  
"Oh, no, pet! Don' min' us 't'all, luv, we're jus' 'avin' a bit of a natter, us. Wot's yer name?"  
"Me? Oh, my name's November..."  
"Well, November, me an' Sheila 'ere'll shut 'er gobs fer ya, since ya were so pleasant-like 'bout askin', innit right, Sheila, innit?"  
"'T'is, Nov'mb'r, t'is. Well, nice chewin' th' fat, J'anna, but I best be gettin' on fer me ol' china plate comes 'ome from th' pub, I fink. 'E'll prolly be a' el'phant's trunk, but..." Sheila gave a long suffering sigh. "G'bye!"  
The receptionist smiled and went back to her wand manicure. November hastily filled in her application, signing her full name at the bottom before handing it to the receptionist. She blew on her nails before taking the paper, giving it a precursory glance. She got up, and started speaking as if this were the first time the pair had exchanged words, when in fact it had barely been ten minutes since Sheila had gone her seperate way.  
"Miss Fudge, if you will follow me please," the receptionist said briskly, "I'll take you righ' to the bosslady's office and your interview will proceed from there."  
"Oh, I, uh, really didn't dress for an...um...interview..." November looked down at her plain grey robes, slightly embarrassed.   
"Nonsense, Miss Fudge. We at Witch Weekly believe that inner talent is what matters and not appearances. Follow me, please." The receptionist began walking, leading November through a labyrinth of smartly decorated office corridors, past closed doors with names on them in gold. November barely got a glance as each one sped by the fast moving woman in front of her. Finally, they stopped at one closed door. The girl knocked hesitantly. "Mrs. Clearwater? There's someone here you should meet."  
"Very well, come in," said an old, dignified voice. November squared her shoulders and hoped for the best as the door swung open, revealing a woman nearing the end of middle age and dressed in the finest robes Galleons could buy, surrounded by stacks of parchment, worn quills, and an inkwell hazardously close to her elbow.   
"Mrs. Clearwater, this is November Fudge. She's applying for the Witch in the Know position."  
November moved forward, hand extended. "Er...how do you do, ma'am?"  
"Yes, how do you do," the witch said formally. She did not shake, and November, blushing slightly, let her hand drop after some time. "So you're November Fudge?"   
"Yes, ma'am."  
"Welcome to Witch Weekly, Ms. Fudge. Joanna, show her around, please. Take her to her office, tell her when she's expected to be here. Get her _used_ to Witch Weekly." The editor-in-chief waved a hand airily, dismissing them. Joanna nodded her head and turned around. November stared in disbelief, her mouth slightly agape.  
"You mean, I've...I've got the job?"  
"Yes, of course." Her new boss looked up, flashing a smile that was not quite warm, but not entirely foreboding. "I expect great things from you, Ms. Fudge. Now run along, and do not disappoint me."  
"Yes, yes ma'am!" November said happily, rushing from the room after Joanna.   
During the tour, November remarked to Joanna that it came as a surprise she was chosen right there.   
"Dun' worry, luv, you'll be movin' alon' soon enough." The questioning look November gave her was met only with a laugh.

- six months later -

November yawned blearily as she tied the scroll to her owl's leg. "Now off with you," she told the bird, handing it an Owl Treat. Sparing a glance at the clock, she saw it was six-thirty in the morning. No use to go to bed now; she'd been up all night working on her newest article, an interview with Fred and George Weasley. She flicked on the Wizarding Wireless, magicking herself a cup of tea. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes….mm…" November opened up a book, flipping through the pages. Lost in the sound of Celestina Warbeck and the ideas of her own little world, she didn't even notice the brown owl who flew in through the open window, with a telltale scarlet envelope. Until the envelope exploded, beginning a vitriolic tirade.  
"NOVEMBER!" the tinny voice screamed. November jumped, upsetting her tea and spilling it all over the Wireless and her book.   
"Bollocks!" she muttered, gripping her wand.  
"YOUR ARTICLE WAS DUE THREE DAYS AGO! WHERE IS IT? WHERE ARE YOU? WHAT'S YOUR EXCUSE FOR BEING LATE THIS TIME? DEMENTORS IN NORTHAMPTON? A LOST DOG TOLD YOU ITS LIFE STORY? IF I DON'T GET THAT ARTICLE IN ONE HOUR, YOU ARE DONE! FINISHED! DO YOU HEAR ME? IF I DON'T GET IT, NEVER COME BACK TO WITCH WEEKLY AGAIN! NEVER!"   
"_Silencio!_" November said hesitantly, tucking her book behind her and half-turning. Her editor's voice instantly magnified, its threats becoming louder and louder.   
"YOU WILL NEVER, EVER WORK IN EUROPE AGAIN! FORGET THE ARTICLE! YOU'RE FIRED, FUDGE! SACKED! GONE! I DON'T CARE IF YOU SIC YOUR FATHER ON WITCH WEEKLY OR NOT, YOU'RE GONE! AND YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN JOURNALISM AGAIN!" The Howler finally curled into ash, burning itself out. November brushed it aside with a sweep of her wand, slamming her head onto her desk, her light brown hair coming out of its untidy bun as she did so.  
"_Accio Firewhisky!_" she muttered, and promptly clonked herself in the head with the bottle. "Bloody Cordelia," November said, rubbing her skull. "S'all her fault." A glance at the floor told her that Ogden had deserted her: his Firewhisky was seeping into the carpet, the bottle shattered. "Sod all! That does it. S'the Leaky Cauldron for me." She pulled on her cloak, Apparating out of her flat with a dull snapping sound.

"Hope you enjoy your stay, Miss Fudge," the old broken-toothed innkeeper said as he showed her into her room, handing her the bottle of Firewhisky she'd ordered. Halfway through the bottle, she stumbled into the bathroom on a break. What she saw there sobered her up instantly. On the floor lay a beautiful woman, the platinum shade of her hair covered completely by scarlet stains. With a scream of horror, November ran from the bathroom and out the door of her room, still shouting for help. Quite out of her head with drink and shock, November fell down the stairs, taking out a tall, lanky redhead on his way up. "Oh, Merlin! I'm sorry! My fault entirely!" she yelped, rolling to a halt on the landing.  
"Quite all right," he said stiffly, jumping to his feet, helping her up. "My pleasure to act as a brake for hazardous women. Do you know where I can find--" November got to her feet, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Ah, Miss Fudge. Your father sent me to find you. I'm Percy Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Ministry and I ---"  
"Percy, that's wonderful. But right now, I've… I've...Woman-bathroom-dead-!"  
"What?" All the color drained from Percy's face. "I'll be right back." He Disapparated with a sharp whip-crack, making November's hair ruffle with a slight breeze. November sat on the stair, her head in hands. Patrons of the Cauldron were filtering up from the bar, no doubt wondering what the commotion was. November looked up, seeing Tom's friendly old gap-toothed face, furrowed with concern.   
"There's a dead woman in my bathroom, Tom. Please get her out." Feeling the world swooping around her wildly, November let the darkness at the edges of her vision overtake her, and she fainted.

November heard voices talking in hushed tones as she woke, but she didn't open her eyes.   
"I think she's come round, sir," an ingratiating voice said. Deciding now would be a good time to look around, November opened her eyes, and found herself---  
"I'm home," she said distantly. Her father loomed over her, smiling down benevolently. "How long have I…?"  
"About a day, my dear…How are you feeling? Gave us such a fright like that…" Cornelius trailed off, with a worried look.  
"The lady," November said. "The lady…who was she? I…I couldn't look at her…"  
Percy appeared at her father's side, a dark expression on his angular face. "Narcissa Malfoy."  
Cornelius cleared his throat. "Really, Weasley, now is not the time, I think. Would you like something to eat, November? You must be starving, I'll have the house-elf make you some tea…"  
"Tea would be wonder, Father," November said hesitantly. "Could I have a copy of the Daily Prophet, as well, please?"   
"Very well, dear." He swept from the room, his bowler hat toppling off his head after a collision with the doorframe. She indicated for him to pull up a chair.  
"What about Narcissa Malfoy, Percy? Tell me everything."  
"She was hit with a Slashing Spell," Percy began. "Er, Miss Fudge, do you really want to hear about it? It's very gory…"  
"Please call me November. And yes, I want to know everything."  
"Er…very well, then, November. Like I said, Mrs. Malfoy was hit with a Slashing Spell, and then a Blood-Draining Jinx."  
Just then, the house-elf appeared with tea, biscuits, and sandwiches on a silver tray. Percy quieted.  
"Master requested that I bring you this, young mistress!" the house-elf squeaked. "Master is also requesting that the young Master Wheezy stay with young mistress to keep her company. Here is the Daily Prophet that young mistress asked for and her tea!"   
"Thank you," November said. "That will be all for now." She took a careful sip of tea, handing Percy his cup. "Help yourself to the biscuits, Phoebe is a very capable cook." November opened the Daily Prophet absently, nearly knocking over the teapot. "Sweet Merlin…" She set her teacup down with a clatter, liquid slopping over the edges and onto the pages of her newspaper. Percy craned his head over to take a look, wincing.  
The body of Narcissa Cygnea Malfoy lay sprawled across the tiled floor, Ministry officers moving in and out of the frame. Unable to look away, November noticed something she hadn't seen on her discovery of the body.  
A four-leaf clover was on Narcissa's chest.   
"What's that?" November asked, pointing to the clover.  
"Look at the title," Percy said grimly. "They're calling whoever's behind this the Mad Irishman."


End file.
